Of Will and Circumstance

I am the spawn of an unused condom
on a bedside table and a brief
disregard for outcome.
I would not call it love. No.

And there it is — I am — convulsed
into some cold gloved hands
and thence pampered, molded
and slow mouldering — kneaded
as dough — risen as a loaf
of will and long odds.

And what greater gift is breath,
to be turned, again and ever
into a wind that fists its way
into my lungs, pierces my tongue,
explodes my spine, that behind,
in the still absent eddy, where
Could-have-been resides,

There is nothing, nothing
but prints and the various bits:
regret, dissonance and the sure brine
of having not run that way.

Image: Tim Mossholder on Unsplash

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